From the Sidelines
by Rosa Cotton
Summary: Before his eyes he is losing her for the third time. 25th anniversary-verse. R/C


Disclaimer: _The Phantom of the Opera_, all characters, places, and related terms belongs to Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber.

Author's Note: Inspired by the amazing Hadley Fraser.

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From the Sidelines

How I choose to come to the graveyard after a frantic, fruitless search for Christine at the opera house and no one could account for when or how she slipped away from the _Don Juan Triumphant _rehearsal, I cannot explain. But here I am. And the sight I observe from the shadows leaves me frozen with amazement. A dark-clothed, masked figure stands atop a mausoleum, beckoning with large graceful hands to Christine who stands below, their voices raised in a soaring duet. Her voice is like an angel's, so similar to the night of the gala. But it is very different from when we stood hand in hand on the rooftop under the stars, confessing our love, I also realize with a chill running down my spine.

"Once again she returns to the arms of her angel," I whisper harshly. A fierce jealousy that has haunted me almost since this mystery began washes over me.

The ecstasy in Christine's voice reminds me of her initial refusal to take part in setting a trap for this phantom. As she trembled in my arms and I tried to sooth her, she related how dangerous he was. In amidst her tears and fears incomprehensibly there was an underlying sense she cared for this "angel." I glare up at the figure in question. "Who are you, strange angel," I wonder under my breath, "luring her from the grave?"

_"I am your angel of music..."_

A cold fury tightens my chest at the expression on Christine's deathly pale face as she, now silent, slowly moves toward the beckoning, singing figure. She is no longer here in the graveyard in the wintery cold. Her eyes are glazed over, unblinking, lifted heavenward. She is miles away, somewhere I do not know, cannot reach. My hands shake, longing to reach out and snatch her back to me, to safety. But suppose my action causes some sort of harm, with her bewitched?

Loudly I call out in a trembling furious voice while stepping out of the shadows, "Angel of darkness! Cease this torment!" She does not belong to him.

My hands ball into fists. I have no weapon to use to stop this man, end all of this. And Christine…is reaching out her hand to him. Venturing further from me.

"Christine!" I shout desperately as I move towards her.

It is like I do not even exist. Her movement and expression are unchanging. And this phantom continues his hypnotic singing.

_"Come: angel of music…"_

I'm losing her. Again.

First, as a boy of thirteen, she a girl of ten, when she was whisked away to Paris after her father died. They did not tell me. I did not get to say goodbye. Tell her I would never forget her, with her sweet voice, brown curls, and sparkling eyes.

"Christine!" The tears I blink back find their way out in my voice.

Second, when I just found her again at the gala, realized she was still Little Lottie, and planned to propose after supper. And her dressing room was dark and deserted when I returned to fetch her. Only the red rose I'd given her was left on the table, and somewhere the faint echo of a man's voice lingered in the room.

Now, this time, before my very eyes she's slipping from away me. She does not know I'm here.

Caught between anger, fear, and heartbreak, I continue to address to her, ardently claiming this "angel" is not her father. My eyes track her progress towards the mausoleum, her hand reaching up, closer and closer…

_"Angel of music…"_

"Let her go! For goodness' sake, let her go!" I command, turning my attention to the man who has continued to draw Christine all this time. But his attention is solely on her. I am not a threat. I can do nothing. The realization hits me hard. The promises I made to Christine that long ago night, to be her light and protection and guide, I have not been able to keep. I am helpless, the situation having spun out of my control. And I _hate_ it all, him, myself.

…Now she is barely more than an arms' length from the tomb.

"_Christine!_" her name tears from my mouth wildly in an order, plea, endearment.

And she abruptly halts, her up stretched arm drops, her head turns towards me. The color returns to her cheeks. Her eyes are wide…clear—

"Raoul!" she cries and runs to me.

I barely can process what is happening as my arms rise automatically to embrace her protectively when she reaches me. She surprises me when she cradles my face in her hands, searching my expression, her own uncertain and questioning. Then suddenly she is kissing me.

In the short moment it lasts, I fiercely kiss her back, my worry, anger, frustration, and disappointment lingering with the dawning relief we have somehow found one another. But this calm and relief shatters as taunting words thunder from above – "Bravo, monsieur!" – and fire falls around us.

THE END


End file.
